


Pavlov's Dog

by bbvqueen



Category: Bleach
Genre: Anal Sex, Consent, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mindfuck, One Shot, Ownership, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbvqueen/pseuds/bbvqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AiGrimm one-shot collection. Dark themes, dark themes everywhere.</p><p>Established relationship of sorts (depending on the story), and yes, they switch. Aizen bottoming to Grimmjow? It's more likely than you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. rey

His tail swishes from right to left and back again, stirring up sand as he watches his comrade return to them, now much smaller than before and dressed in rags. Grimmjow only knows it’s still Shawlong because of the way his reiatsu feels, and it irritates him to no end because at the same time he recognizes its weight, which has more than tripled compared to before.

It’s stronger than his own, now. And this shape, it’s the shape they’ve worked so hard to attain now for years, all of them, constantly struggling for survival at the same time and then this Shinigami scum comes along and gives it to one of them like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Out of the kindness of his fucking heart, he’s sure.

Shawlong tells his comrades everything they want to know, about the new depths of his powers, how it feels to wield this weapon, and the mysterious soul reaper that had helped him reach the next stage of his evolution even when he was never meant to. Grimmjow is the only one who doesn’t ask any questions and remains sitting on his haunches, long tail still swiping, faster now.

Then it comes down like a whip, quick and sharp with a loud crack, and they stop talking, turning towards their leader.

“You really think,” he rumbles, a deep, guttural sound, “I’m gonna  _serve_  some shinigami dumbfuck?”

“That is not what I asked of him.”

At the sound of an unknown voice, Grimmjow spins around and assumes a hostile stance – he’s about to instinctively leap at the intruder with a roar to tear his throat out, but the wave of spiritual pressure that crashes down on him paralyzes him, like his body is not even his own anymore.

…He's never felt anything like this before, not even from Baraggan, it’s almost enough to make him feel sick –

“I merely told your friend to come and follow me, if he wanted to see what true power looks like. Is that not so,” the man says, clad in black, and Grimmjow can make out two more of his sort. “Shawlong?”

“That is correct, Lord Aizen.”

_Lord_  Aizen – he shoots Shawlong a glare, growls, unable to shake off the invisible restraints. The others are not moving either, and for a moment, Grimmjow cannot even tell for sure if this is really happening right now, if this is some sort of joke, how can he be this  _weak_  –

( _Fear_ , it’s there, that old hated feeling, and more than anything he wishes he could swallow it down, like he’d swallowed all of his victims and even his comrades.)

All he can do is listen.

“I would like to extend the same offer to all of you. Do you not desire  _change_? I know for a fact that your entire world is about to be changed very soon by my efforts. If you do not believe me, I want to invite you to come and watch for yourself…”

He lifts the pressure finally, but all strength has been drained from Grimmjow’s body; he can hardly even stand now. He scoffs.

_You’re all talk_ , he wants to say, but recognizes in the very same moment how stupid that would sound when he can’t even attack.

“But first,” says Aizen, reaching for something hidden within the inner pockets of his Captain’s haori, “You will be given the power you have been craving, so you no longer have to live in fear. Is that acceptable?”

What is he supposed to say,  _no?_

*

And Grimmjow watches, from a distance, sitting on an elevated plateau with the rest of his group, but it’s still deeper than he had ever been into Baraggan’s territory. He’s sure he could take the self-proclaimed king of hollows on now with his new powers, an Arrancar against a Vasto Lorde, but Aizen told them to wait. He still cannot believe that he’s actually following a shinigami, that he has taken  _gifts_  from him, that he’s sitting here on his ass with a number imprinted right above it.

But somehow, all the alternatives sound even worse, no matter how often he turns them around in his own head.

Aizen is not all talk, it seems. Grimmjow watches him subdue Baraggan and his army with ease, changing his world, knocking him off his throne. It was the throne Grimmjow had hoped to one day claim for himself, once he was strong enough, a Vasto Lorde himself.

Instinctively, he’d always known that day would never come, just like the sun never came to Hueco Mundo, because Shawlong was right. Each of them could only reach so far, and this man…

Aizen’s blade gleams in the moonlight when he sheathes it, leaving both his lackeys to take care of the fallen king and his court. He turns to look into Grimmjow’s direction, looks up with this knowing smile, and Grimmjow looks down, his blue eyes narrowed into a sullen scowl. Again, there’s chatter, muffled voices in the background.

_ Do you see clearly now? _

“He actually took down Baraggan…”

“Maybe he really means what he said?”

“What will we do?”

“Tell us, Grimmjow.”

“Hey, Grimmjow – “

He picks up his zanpakutou and snaps, “Che, what the  _fuck_  do you think?”

( _So you no longer have to live in fear_ , he said, a shinigami, but no matter how much he wants to laugh the noise dies down before ever making it past his lips, and he swallows it down.)

Pushing himself to his human feet, Grimmjow begins to climb down the slope, down until he’s on ground level, and follows.


	2. péndulo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If time is not real, then the dividing line between this world and eternity,  
> between suffering and bliss, between good and evil, is also an illusion.
> 
> \- Hermann Hesse

Grimmjow isn’t sure how much time has passed since this meeting started, nor does he care. But what he does know is that he would rather stare at something other than the cup filled with dark, now lukewarm liquid in front of him, which he hasn’t touched once.

It’s always the same, when Aizen returns to Las Noches after a perceived eternity – at least according to the others. He doesn’t try to keep track of time at all, never has and never will, and he doesn’t keep track of his comrades’ words, either, when they give their reports; a constant annoying buzzing in the background when Nnoitra or Aaroniero or Szayel talk. When it’s Grimmjow’s turn, sitting to Aizen’s right and being the last, he has nothing to say, as usual, earning him a disparaging frown from the Cuatro at the opposite side of the table and Grimmjow wants nothing more than to gouge his eyes out.

When their meeting concludes without notable news and Aizen dismisses his entourage, Grimmjow is the only one that remains in his seat while the others begin to scatter, legs crossed and hands buried in the pockets of his hakama. Starrk and Harribel are the ones to regard him with a look of pity when they pass him by, because this, too, has become a ritual; though whether they assume that Aizen, in his endless mercy, is just giving him a stern talking-to or something far worse, is anyone’s guess. Ultimately they don’t really give a damn, and ultimately both assumptions are wrong.

Aizen takes his time to finish his tea, and a pair of Números collect both his empty mug and Grimmjow’s full one, the beverage now cold. He serves them freshly brewed, hot tea every time without fail; a gesture of his  _kindness_  and goodwill, and every time Grimmjow does not drink it. Aizen never addresses his bad manners, this little act of passive rebellion, and it’s helped Grimmjow get a better idea of just how much leeway he is allowed, how much he can get away with without inciting Aizen’s ire.

He measures all of his actions against the tea he silently refuses to drink.

They don’t exchange so much as a word now, either, because it’s not necessary and Grimmjow isn’t good at them. Aizen simply gets up from his seat when just he and his appointed Sexta are still left in the large, empty room, and only once he turns away from him and heads for the stairs, Grimmjow follows suit.

*

Grimmjow walks only a few steps behind Aizen, the same way he’s walked a dozen of times now, always towards the same destination. While the others have undoubtedly already retreated to their palaces under the dome, they are going to stay on top of it, the only place where the artificial sun of Las Noches still does not reach. Most Arrancar have, collectively and among themselves, begun to refer to this part as Lord Aizen’s territory; because his throne room, the meeting hall, the command center, and his private chambers are all on this level, which is divided from the one below.

And so night and day exist alongside each other, without ever touching or switching places; and against all reason it is the all-encompassing darkness above their heads that illuminates the monochromatic desert that is their home, bathing it in warm light and painting it with vibrant colors. It’s a dichotomy that doesn’t occur to him for the first time, just like the fact that Aizen has quenched their insatiable hunger and somehow provided them with water, but he doesn’t dwell on it for very long because that old life before Aizen feels so far away now, and he finds himself not missing it. His gaze is fixed on the back of Aizen’s head the whole time, blatantly ignoring the few Números on their way who bow on instinct and greet them with  _Aizen-sama_  and  _Grimmjow-sama_ , respectively, not even acknowledging them with a glance.

It surprises him when it’s Aizen’s voice that he hears the next time, the sound of it unforgettable and so hauntingly melodic it tends to follow him into his own quarters even when the shinigami’s absent from his hollow kingdom, unlike all the others he usually has to listen to on a daily basis.

“It has been exactly a decade today,” Aizen says without stopping or looking at him, and for a moment Grimmjow wonders if he’s able to read minds. “Since I found you in the desert. Do you know how many days and hours that is?”

Grimmjow calculates roughly, but decides that there’s no point to giving a precise answer, because, again, he doesn’t care. Hollows don’t measure time like that, if at all, because of how their world works.

“A lot. I don’t know.”  _And why does it matter_ , his blasé tone seems to imply. Hueco Mundo is divided in the strong and the weak, those that survive and those who do not, the periods of time when Aizen is present and when he is not. Not in days, not in yesterday and tomorrow; not in seasons, summer or winter, because they know no such things.

“You never bothered to count? Well, it probably is hard to keep track, however,” Aizen goes on, “It was July 31st in the living world. That should be easier to remember. Ten years today, and eleven in a year from now. Do you feel content, now that you know that?”

“It’s just some number,” Grimmjow replies, and the shrug is audible in his voice. The only thing he counts now are the resounding steps until Aizen gives him a delayed answer, three, four, five, six.

“Just some number… Would you say the same thing about the one on your back?”

That makes Grimmjow perk up. His eyes automatically drop down to the small of Aizen’s back, and are then drawn towards the hilt of his zanpakutou, its weight causing the sheath it is contained in to swing back and forth with each measured step, steady and hypnotic like a pendulum, and –  _I wasn’t aware he had that with him?_

Before Grimmjow can think of a good answer, his sovereign comes to a halt in front of him because they have reached the large set of double doors that lead to Aizen’s chambers. He pushes them open just enough so that both he and Grimmjow can slip inside, and then lets them drift shut on their own to keep the rest of Las Noches out.

“But I suppose you are right,” Aizen picks up their conversation again despite Grimmjow’s lack of response, who only now pulls his hands out of his pockets so he can reach for Aizen’s shoulders – or rather the sleeves of his long and pristine outer robe, to help him shrug out of it. When he tosses the article of clothing aside to land on some furniture, it’s with decidedly less care than moments prior, when his fingers were still near Aizen.

“Time holds no meaning at all when you strive for immortality.”

It’s the first time since he’s back that he turns around to face Grimmjow, to look him directly in the eyes, to look at him and no one else, and although he can’t explain why this is the moment where his chest always swells with pride; when Aizen steps forward and touches his hand to it, involuntarily causing Grimmjow to grin against the liar’s mouth covering his own and sucking on a wicked tongue pushing between sharp rows of teeth.

He knows this means nothing at all, but he’s still ruled by greed and lust and hunger, and he wants this, for however long it lasts, it doesn’t matter, just Aizen’s hot, unblemished skin under his fingertips, his moans in his ears, and his weight on his lap.

*

Grimmjow doesn’t know how much time has passed since this has started – hours, days, weeks, months,  _years_  – but he wishes he knew at least how long it would take until it  _stops_.

What exactly transpired the moments after they had entered Aizen’s most private rooms eludes the Sexta completely, or when and how he ended up on his back all tangled up in the silken sheets of Aizen’s bed – like a huge chunk of knowledge has just been ripped out of his memory, to leave a gaping hole he cannot fill by himself, if he even had the energy to try. But there’s a gnawing awareness at the edge of his strained mind (which, in its current state, feels more like  _mush_ ) that Aizen has done something to him, that he’s fucking with him, and that it will only end once the self-declared God is satisfied.

And how long that might take, no one can possibly say.  _Asking_  Aizen what he wants has never done him any good in the past; it mostly earned him cryptic answers and vague gestures that could be taken one way or another, and even when he thought he understood he somehow _still_  fucked it up, and this time – this time Aizen remains silent altogether, giving him no pointers at all.

He’s just there, above and next to him, filling Grimmjow’s blurry vision, and touches him, eyes never wavering from his form. His fingers scythe through the blue, damp mane that is his hair with something that could be mistaken for affection. He can’t see the other hand, but he  _knows_ exactly where it is, down there, torturing him relentlessly. Soft digits are caressing the empty space where his heart should be, leaking reiatsu into the circular wound that makes up the core of his identity, just a small amount, and yet he feels like he is about to burst; every  _second_  feels like he is about to burst, each drop and each stroke one too many, but he never does, he never does and it’s wearing him down, down, down.

Grimmjow just whimpers, and Aizen breathes into him, shoves his tongue between his pliable lips and fucks him with it, meeting no resistance and tasting like the black tea he had refused. Grimmjow's cock is so hard it hurts, straining against one of Aizen’s still clothed legs and begging for friction, but he can barely move and he doesn’t feel his own hands, wrists tied somewhere at his back; he’s already forgotten about them.

_ How long? _

He can’t do anything other than stare up at Aizen, imploringly, when he separates again; his own eyes glazed over while Aizen’s are clear and focused, deep like the ocean and dark like the sky stretching across the desert and its moonlit dunes, the sky he sat under asking himself the same question and over again feeling so infinitely small and weak and  _afraid_  –

_How long?_   _How long?_   ** _HOW LONG?!_**

– But even the moon held no answers for him, didn’t tell him how many more meals it would take to become strong, meals he had never bothered to count. Three thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand; and he wondered, perhaps, if Shawlong had been right with his theory and yet wrong about him. What if he was never meant to become a Vasto Lorde, no matter how long he kept going like this? Sooner or later he would encounter one of them, or an Arrancar or worse yet, Barragan Louisenbarn, and he knew instinctively that he stood no chance against them, they would simply tear him from limb to limb if he entered their territory, and stray hollows would feast on his remains. If he had to live in fear for as long as he was able to think, then what kind of king did that make him?

_How long?_  He asked the everlasting night, so often and always with a bloody maw, hoping that someday the answer would consist of something other than silence that manifested in the word  **forever**  inside his own mind, a parasite robbing him of all faith in himself, and all the faith his comrades had placed in him.

But then, one day – some nebulous yesterday, or tomorrow, or today, it had all melted into something murky and indeterminate – the night did answer him, the cold blanket covering their world, and the wind brushed past his ears and whispered with a silky, comforting voice,

          **Never.**

“Aizen,” Grimmjow gasps, eyes wide open and staring right through the man above, sweat on his forehead and running down his temples. The ugly sound of a steel collar snapping shut around his throat echoes in his thoughts, looking like the crescent moon, gleaming in the cold light, cutting into his skin, taking away all air to breathe.

          **Come with me.**

_July 31st._  He remembers now, clear as day; the date burning itself into his psyche like the number on his back, and under the weight of everything bearing down on him in these moments – the nostalgic images, the forced emotions, the physical sensations, the enduring torture, the immense spiritual pressure – Grimmjow feels so sick he wishes he could throw up, just to get out something,  _something_  –

“Yes?” Aizen asks, with a raised eyebrow, nail grazing the rim of his hole, eliciting an agonized moan that is teetering on the edge of what he would later call pure, unadulterated rapture.  

“Fuck…”

_You_ , he wants to finish, clinging to a tiny shred of dignity, but he can’t, it’s slipping away like the sand did through his fingers, his instincts urging him to give in,  _give in, you know what he wants to hear_ ,  _you always kn **EW,**_ **but this is the most exquisite kind of _PAIN_ , is it not, GRIMMJOW _?_**

“ – Me.”

“One more word,” Aizen purrs, eyes sharp and narrowed and he keeps going with the same intensity, and Grimmjow gives, because he’s so close, it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except  _this_ , he needs it more than anything else.

“P… lease,” he hisses, through clenched teeth, and finally –

“Very good.”

Aizen places a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth which still seems to last an eternity, but then he removes his hands, the pressure, and himself, and Grimmjow deflates with a long-winded groan that trails off into something pitiful. He wheezes, chest rising and falling and sucking in air harshly, but at least he feels somewhat lucid again and like he is no longer trapped in limbo, though even that might be an illusion. His physical heart still pounds against his ribcage when he hears a faint rustle of clothes, and this time, everything happens very fast – frozen time melting quickly into a powerful, sweeping waterfall when Aizen opens the floodgates.

_ It’s wet. His – _

Fingers are at a different hole now, and Grimmjow spreads his legs automatically despite the burn, which doesn’t last long before the weight on the mattress shifts again, and not just Aizen’s. Of course, of _course_ , how long did he wait until finally turning it around, how much patience must one man possess?

“Hrgh, shit, _shit_  – take it – “

“Slow?”

Aizen gives a heated, cruel laugh, right next to his ear, wrapping an arm around Grimmjow’s shoulders to pull him up just enough as he situates himself between his thighs. The Sexta growls tiredly, moving with him because a hot fist of painful desire is still buried in his gut, twisting like a knife, and that’s exactly how it feels when Aizen rams into his ass, so hard and sudden that he almost believes, for a second, that his cock is splitting him apart.

It doesn’t, by some miracle. Grimmjow curses under his breath, slamming his forehead against his shoulder and holding onto him with his legs, locking tightly around him because he still doesn’t know where his arms are and how to use them.

Aizen starts fucking him almost immediately, like an unbridled force of nature, establishing a merciless and steady pace without compromising for Grimmjow’s comfort. And as much as he swears and curses at each thrust rocking his exhausted body, he can’t say that he hates it. His dick is still standing and remains standing throughout it all, and his hips arch towards him so he can grind against Aizen’s chiseled abs for the much-wanted friction. It doesn’t take long at all before different things are starting to come out of his mouth,  _Aizen-sama_  and _Yes_ and  _Harder, More, Faster._

And then it just feels so fucking  **good** , Aizen’s body flush against his, Aizen’s hips smacking against his, Aizen’s fucking dick pounding his stretched asshole and filling it so completely he can hardly stand it,  **never**   _ever_  slowing down.

“ _Forty-six,”_  he hears himself mutter at one point, with another hard stroke, because he’s not sure when or how but he’s counted every single thrust, and he keeps counting them until he can’t anymore ( _eighty-nine_ ) because he’s done,  _done,_ overstuffed andon the brim of bursting again and this time, he actually can.

The strength of Grimmjow’s orgasm, with a perceived eternity of pent up lust behind it, is enough to force the air out of his lungs once again, and he screams something shrill and incoherent that sounds suspiciously like  _Aizen-sama_ , but it’s hard to say. He comes long and hard against Aizen’s stomach and chest, his cock spurting white hot ribbons of cum that stick to his skin, some landing on the sheets, and some more on himself.

He’s out, after that, though for how long he cannot tell. Aizen doesn’t stop until he spills himself, but when he does he does so quietly, gracefully, with a distant and low growl worming its way into Grimmjow’s subconscious, and something in him, something  _primal_ , throbs in response.

*

When he comes to again – bleary eyes fluttering open – he can make out Aizen’s shape, vaguely, sitting at the edge of the bed, looking at him.

“And do you feel content now?” He hears some words, but he needs a moment to process them. Even then, though, he can only figure out it must be a question, judging by the inflection.

So he just says, “…Yeah.”

He blinks a few times, and registers that Aizen’s face is cast in shadows, the moon pouring its pale light into the room through the open window behind him. Aizen’s voice sounds the same as ever when he speaks, calm and even.

“Good. Look at what kind of mess you made, though, in less than ten minutes…”

And again, Grimmjow blinks owlishly, touching one of his hands to his temple and brushing some strands of hair out of his eyes. When he realizes this, he stops and stares at his open palm, dumbfounded.  _What…?_

He moves to sit up, still in a post-coital stupor, and looks down at himself, dipping his fingers into the semen still clinging to the rim of his hollow hole, and then some blanket soaked in cum which Aizen must have used to clean himself with, because there’s nothing on him when he looks again.

“A little underwhelming, given what I had planned for today,” Aizen continues, and shifts a little so Grimmjow can see his face more clearly. His hair is disheveled and some of it sticks to his forehead, brown strands falling loosely over his eyes. “Would you like to spend the rest of the time I have to spare with me regardless?”

Although the question registers, he does not answer immediately, and instead finds himself just  _looking_  at Aizen for some bizarre reason, with a knitted brow. Just the way he sits there, naked and kind of disorderly, the faintest flush still lingering on his cheeks, asking him a question humans ask each other all the time, he looks so… average. Less like Aizen-sama, and more like Sousuke.

Some of the heat still on his face drops down to his gut, but it’s different this time. Gentle. Like a warm, pleasant glow.

“Grimmjow.”

“Yes,” comes the pavlovian response, and his thoughts screech to a halt to backtrack. A hand is placed on his knee, and he glances at it. “I’d… like that.”

“Then come,” Sousuke says, climbing off the mattress, and Grimmjow knows he is about to head to his sprawling bathroom without him having to mention it. “Keep me company.”

Grimmjow follows him promptly, dragged along by an invisible leash. He still does not know how to count days or months or years, but he can count on Aizen to tell him exactly how much time has passed; how much longer he still has to wait, and that’s what he’ll believe.


	3. dolor

He hated how much it fucking _hurt_.

And not even the goddamn arm, or rather the  _lack_ of it after it had been cleanly severed from the shoulder; no, his back, where a number had been seared into his flesh once by the big man himself, granting him rank and associated privileges. He hadn’t even bothered carving it out of him again, ordering some grunt to remotely demote him to the rank of a shitty _Privaron_.

_Fuck Aizen_ , Grimmjow thought bitterly, stalking through Las Noches and back to his palace to get his few belongings.

_ And fuck Tousen, too. Fuck Luppi. Fuck all of ‘em. _

The truth was that he had liked being part of the Espada, even though he knew it was just an euphemism for ‘Aizen’s inner circle of bitches’ – the fucking problem was that being one of his bootlickers also meant  _prestige_  around here, and a certain freedom. Having his power acknowledged both satisfied and pacified him, so much that Aizen determining him to be only the sixth strongest after assessing his  _Résurrecion_ was almost irrelevant, because he was still stronger than most and didn’t have to bow to anyone.

Anyone but  _him_. Grimmjow had learned to arrange himself with that, as much as he hated it, because Aizen had made good on most of his promises so far. For a while, he had honestly believed that they could stand at the top of the world with him. Until Aizen had so impressively demonstrated that he didn’t really care about any of his subordinates, and that every single one of them was replaceable. He hadn’t given a fuck when Nel had gone missing, either, and almost instantly promoted Tier to fill the vacant position.

He was seething with rage just thinking about that, and then the little brat that now paraded around a black six indicative of his rank like he had in any way earned it. The goddamn _shithead_  that was just unlucky enough to cross Grimmjow’s path that day, and had the gall to mock him in passing.

“Oops, better give the trash a wide berth, before the stench sticks~”

Unfortunately Grimmjow would be ruining his plans.

“You fucking son of a  ** _bitch_** ,” he growled as he lunged at Luppi, his only remaining hand wrapping around his throat, slamming him into the nearest wall, hard enough to force the air out of his lungs and disorientate the shorter Arrancar for a moment.

“You think you’re stronger than me now, huh? Sure I can’t just rip you apart if I felt like it? Not like  _Aizen-sama_ is gonna lift a damn finger for you.” He snarled with a sadistic grin, baring his fangs as he continued to throttle Luppi. All it would take is a  _Cero_ , or even just a  _Bala_ … it wouldn’t get him his rank back, but  _damn_  wouldn’t it be satisfying…

Before he could make his final decision, though, he was distracted both by Luppi’s lack of struggle as well as the fact that he was focusing and staring at something  _other_  than the enraged former Sexta about to murder him, something behind him –

“Grimmjow.”

The sound of his name in that voice was like a bucket of ice water being emptied right over his head, and everything in him – all the broiling hatred – screeched to a halt, momentarily frozen. His grasp around Luppi’s throat became lax, and he immediately brought some distance between himself and Grimmjow, gasping for air.

_ Shit. _

_ Shitshitshit— _

How had he not heard or felt him coming? And why the hell would he care about that maggot of all people…?!  _Are you fucking kidding me?!_

But none of his thoughts came over his lips. Edging closer to the wall and leaning against it, right where Luppi had been up until a second ago, Grimmjow felt like he was the one backed into a corner now, and that he was incredibly small, even though Aizen was the same height as him – standing only a few feet behind him, like a marble, silent sentinel.

“ – Sir.”

He hated the cold shiver than ran down his spine as he slowly turned around with a fiery, flash frozen passion.

“Ooh, look whose words are stuck in his throat now – “ A certain someone gloated.

He had to admit that it found it just a little satisfying to watch how Aizen’s steely gaze wandered over to Luppi and narrowed significantly, causing him to shut up in a panic and bow so deeply that his head almost hit the ground, before he ran off, making a face at Grimmjow once he was behind Aizen.

Which left the former Sexta alone with his despot.

The uncertainty of what would happen next was perhaps the most grating, and Grimmjow could hardly even look him in the eyes. He ground his teeth together, recognizing the fear for what it was; the fear that Aizen would not pardon him this time for disturbing the peace.

The fear of being struck down like he was nothing more than an afterthought, like he had never even mattered, wiped off the earth like a speck of dirt on Aizen’s uniform.

(In the end, he was ruled by the same instincts as all hollows: the urge to survive by filling the void inside, and God’s eyes and words managed to do just that. And he  _hated_  that, too, that some part of him craved Aizen’s attention, who was at his core still just a shinigami, a being bred to destroy him.)

“I like that look,” Aizen said, eventually, prompting Grimmjow to look at him again, brows drawn together. He flinched when Aizen took a step towards him, when he saw his hand move and reach for him out of the corner of his eye.

He knew there would be pain before there was any. His long fingers would curl around his throat, crushing his windpipe, because there couldn’t possibly be anything else.

Not the thumb at his chin, not the warm breath brushing over his lips, slightly parted; not Aizen’s mouth on his and the soft, wet tongue sliding into him and over rows of teeth, met by Grimmjow’s own.

He didn’t really process what was happening before it was already over, lasting no more than a few seconds.

“What… the… what the f—“

He clasped his hand over his mouth, his back slamming into the wall, staring at Aizen with wide eyes.  _What the hell?_ Was this another one of his stupid ass games? Was this his idea of  _punishment,_ to embarrass him?

Aizen himself seemed unperturbed despite the reaction and self-complacent as always, hands digging into the pockets of his outer robe, back straight.

“I was wondering if that foul mouth of yours was capable of other things,” he said. “Come walk with me.”

With a hum, he turned around, starting to walk down the wide hallway. Grimmjow didn’t yet move, paralyzed by his actions in the same manner only Aizen’s spiritual pressure usually managed to paralyze him.

_ Aizen… _

He wasn’t stupid. The implications of that were not lost on him, and he felt like he was choking on his own bile, biting down on the fingers that kept it all safely inside him; so hard that he tore skin and drew blood.

**_ Aizen…!! _ **

Grimmjow shut his eyes, and took a deep breath.

He pushed himself off the wall and followed him regardless, no matter where he was led, but he still hated how fucking much it  _hurt_.


End file.
